XXV
EVENTIDE
WE are still in our pleasant rooms, and life is very quiet and happy. Each day I grow less able to go about. I have no inclination to leave our nice room. It is really true I am growing old. I can hear only in one ear; but, oh my, don't I hear quickly in the other! The sense of smell has grown stronger. I think I could smell a rat one mile away. My eyesight is good. I do not believe even a Boston-born cat ever wears glasses. Their literary tendencies do not need to be advertised by glasses.
But alas! there are other indications of old age. I love to lie quiet, looking in the fire, where I see pictures of the past. My appetite is good, but I am very particular about my food, and if it does not please me, I am irritable. Unless the boys or some friends I love come in, I do not feel inclined to make myself agreeable. It is a real pleasure when Will takes me on his knee, and I can stick my claws in, just as I used to, scratching gently, while he says, "Oh, Daisy, you are at your old tricks!"
But it makes me sad after they have gone. I look in the fire and see the dear little boys of long ago, dressed so cunning and always so full of fun. To know that they are no longer mine! These smart young men have taken their places. Then, indeed, I feel I am an old cat and nearing the end. I have learned now the meaning of "the beginning of the end." I realize that I must finish my book at once, before I get too old to write at all. My thumb is rather stiff and rheumatic, and my "index claw" not quite as sharp a pen as it used to be, but I think I shall be able to finish my work.
There is one thing very true. No one realizes my great age. Friends come in daily, and say, "Oh, Daisy, how lovely you are! and your tail is just perfect." Of course I know it is true. My tail is just lovely, and my fur is as soft and luxuriant as it was years ago. But when they say, "She is beautiful," that arouses all the "old cat Adam" in me, for I suppose that is the part of us that dies last. After having all my life behaved like a gentleman, with all his virtues, and none of his vices, now, in my old age, to be called "She" is more than I can bear. The advanced woman cat may, like her superiors, have a desire to be men; but no gentleman cat would ever care to change his nature or sex. Just because my name is Daisy, they seem to think I am a "Miss Nancy," and adapt their conversation to suit an inferior intellect.
One young girl came to visit us one day, and we were tired enough of her. She had no brains and soon used up all her small talk. Then she gushed over me. It made me sick. I opened my eyes wide at her. This pleased her so much that she nodded just like a donkey, and clucked at me just as if she thought me a hen. Then she repeated that awful silly thing with no sense in at all:—
"'Pussy Cat, Pussy Cat, where have you been?'
'I've been to London to see the Queen.'"